


collaboration

by MonikaKrasnorada



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF, Harry Styles- Fandom, Timothée Chalamet- Fandom
Genre: Canon Compliant, First Meetings, M/M, Photoshoots, Stylamet
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-08-28 22:31:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16731858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MonikaKrasnorada/pseuds/MonikaKrasnorada
Summary: Simply because I can't get over the i-D VICE magazine article.





	collaboration

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Iknowthebattle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iknowthebattle/gifts), [CristinaSea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CristinaSea/gifts).



> I adore these two boys and wanted to have some fun.
> 
> Unbeta'd so it's a hot mess, but hope you enjoy. xx

 

_ “Where is the Givenchy?” _

_ “No! We decided against the Vuitton varsity.” _

Hearing the mention of those brands made Timmy squirm. Anxious. Excited. He’d done plenty of magazines photo shoots, enjoyed the general frenetic energy, but he was nervous by nature. That was never going to change.

He was still essentially an ‘unknown’. Sure, everyone knew he was their victim  _ du jour _ , but to most, he was another in a long line of people before him. There was no fawning. They were professionals who worked with the famous and beautiful every day. Tim was another job to them. So, as they worked around him with little regard.

He slumped further into the upholstered barber chair they had assigned him, hunching and pulling his shoulders in, shrinking in on himself hoping to stay out of everyone’s way. He watched, faceless people yelling, scurrying around like harried bees. In his (still-much-limited) experience with shoots, he knew his input on anything other than serving as human mannequin was neither needed nor desired so he did his best to dissolve into the background.

They’d had him shower when he arrived, draped him in a white bathrobe and herded him in this general direction. Someone had pointed, and he had plopped and there he sat, naked beneath the robe, hair dripping down the neck of the collar.

The lights of the make-up mirror in front of him were harsh so early in the morning. He’d taken the 6AM flight from San Francisco to get the shoot done before the LA premiere for the Academy later that afternoon.  Brian had tentatively offered to tag along, but Timothée had shrugged him off. He could stand where they wanted, smiling into the camera without the need of a manager. Brian had too-easily agreed to fly in later with Nic and David.

Tim thought nothing of it at the time.

In the maelstrom, someone hastily set up an impromptu ‘continental’ breakfast- a plate of pastries, and a carafe each of coffee and juice- placed unceremoniously on the crowded counter in front of the mirror.

“Help yourself,” she offered a quick smile, stopping long enough to bend down to pick up the black and silver belt that had fallen to the floor. Timmy didn’t even have time to say thanks before she was rushing back out the door.

He contemplated eating something for about two seconds before simply opting for a glass of orange juice. He passed the time, scrolling Instagram on his phone, liking random posts in his tag, a smile occasionally tugging at one corner of his mouth.

It only partially held his attention, his eyes bouncing back and forth from the screen to the counter in front of him. He eyed the numerous items warily for half a second before reminding himself there was no way to know if it was all placed there for his shoot. And just in case they were, he didn’t  _ really  _ want to look too closely, delighted to keep the edge of surprise that much keener.

He bounced a knee, scraped a palm up and down his calf. His legs were cold.

The crowd in the room ebbed and flowed, too many people running back and forth, wheeling in evermore racks of clothes, wheels squeaking and straining under the weight.  He tried his best not to be caught peeking, but he lived for this shit and the  _ waiting  _ was killing him _.  _ As sly as he could manage, he shook his head, allowing wet hair to fall forward, flopping over his brow, shadowing his eyes. He raised them, looking  over the top of his phone, through his fringe into the mirror to try to see what surprises awaited him.

“Curiosity killed the cat.”

His voice always reminded Tim of an aged Southern whiskey, a scalding burn in the back of the throat, slow as molasses with a cadence of  letters and consonants dropped, skipped like the scratches in old vinyl 45s. It never failed to make the hair at Timmy’s nape prickle whenever they spoke on the phone. Hearing it  _ in person  _ combined with having been caught out, made him jump. An orange puddle bloomed in his lap.

“ _ Fuck.” _

Timothée scrambled to set the glass down, tripping over the footrest. There was now orange on his sleeve as well.  _ Smooth, Tim.  _ He tucked the wet, sticky cuff in his fist, rolling his eyes but didn’t even try to wipe the wide, easy smile from his face once he got his limbs under control.

“Harry. I can’t believe you’re- What the fuck are you doing here, man? Did I miss a memo or something?”

Harry leaned in the doorway, one Chelsea boot-clad foot crossed over the other like he had all day. He wore a brightly colored Hawaiian-print shirt that reminded Timmy of his own he had worn to a recent New York q & a. Timmy’s had been turquoise and covered in butterflies. The color of Harry’s was indeterminate, a riot of hues that should have been tacky but was effortlessly cool, French-tucked into a pair of black skinny jeans, unbuttoned so far down his torso Timmy could see the top of his butterfly tattoo. Two silver chains winked in the light.

Timmy licked his lips as Harry peeled away from the doorframe like pulled taffy, his movements as languorous as his speech pattern. It reminded Tim of a nature documentary on Kilauea he had watched with his dad years ago. That was Harry- a lava flow oozing closer. Timmy felt the heat of it all along his front.

The room vibrated with silence as the door clicked shut behind him.

“No, no memo,” there was a dimple in his cheek. “ _ Surprise.” _

The word was accentuated with jazz hands, light bouncing off the bracelets at his wrist. The rings on his fingers flashing like miniature paparazzi bulbs.

“Mr Chalamet,” his head bobbed as he stopped in front of Timmy.

The salutation had Timothée grinning again, recalling their recent past phone call. The interview that was to accompany this photo shoot.

“Mr Styles,” breezy, holding out his hand.

One dark brow lifted high on Harry’s forehead. “What? No hug? I thought you were a nuzzler?”

Timmy’s stomach gave an odd little lurch. The word ‘hug’ from Harry’s mouth sounded like  _ hoog.  _ Tim made a note to  kill Saoirse for that whole ‘pony’ comment. He was never going to live it down.

Harry didn’t wait for Timmy to respond, wrapping his arms around Tim’s shoulders, pulling him in before Timmy dropped his hand. Of course, like a Pavlovian response to someone within close proximity, Timmy’s head found Harry’s shoulder. His own arms encircled his waist, wrists clasped in both hands at the small of Harry’s back.

It felt as if they’d been hugging one another for years. Old friends.

Being only a few inches taller than Tim, hugging Harry felt completely different. Tim was used to being enveloped, surrounded, but with Harry, they were literally on equal footing.

They slot together perfectly.

Timothée disengaged first, realising the hug was lingering longer than was appropriate for new acquaintances. Over time and certain circumstance, he’d become hyper-aware of those sorts of moments and interactions with another ‘close friend’, forever fearful of overstepping boundaries or drawing undue attention.

Even though there was no one around to see them, old habits were hard to break.

In what Tim was finding to be true Harry fashion, he didn’t seem concerned, but released his hold on Tim at his own pace. He chuckled as Tim tried to step back, their necklaces snagged, caught between them.

Timmy wordlessly stared at Harry’s hands as he worked the tangle loose. His nails were painted, the polish dark. They appeared black from a distance but now Tim could see they were midnight blue, with a faint iridescence, like the shimmer of a raven’s wing.

“Hope you don’t mind. Me just popping in?” Once free, Harry patted Timothée’s necklace in place against his chest, his palm lingering. His voice was low as if he were worried his appearance was somehow unwelcome.

“No.” Tim swallowed thickly with a small shake of his head.

Harry was always so self-assured, that his subdued tone now, caught Timothée off guard.

“‘Course not. I’m completely fucking blown away, dude. Like-” Harry’s smile was bright as the sun and Tim couldn’t hold back his own, filled to the brim with glee. “You’re  _ here _ . I mean, I know we’re not exactly strangers now, but, I’m just- I’m  really glad to finally  _ meet  _ you. It’s surreal.”

Tim didn’t think twice, hugging Harry quickly once more, proof of the truth in his words. Harry chuckled, a warm pleasant sound that vibrated through the wall of Timmy’s chest, hugging him tightly in return.

“So, um,” Timmy cleared his throat, suddenly remembering to be embarrassed, taking a step back, away from the enticing heat of Harry’s embrace. He rubbed his palm over the hair at the nape of his neck, suddenly reminded that it was still damp. A douse of cold water reality.

The knowledge set off a rollercoaster of anxiety. First time meeting with Harry Fucking Styles face-to-face and there he was with a wet head, naked, in a juice-stained bathrobe.

_ Great first impression. _

“Um, okay, seriously.  What are you doing here?”

Harry spun on his heel, walking around to the other side of the clothing rack in front of them. Hangers scraped loudly against the metal pole as he sifted through the selections with dramatic flair. Timmy stood watch, the belt of his robe wound and unwound around the index and middle finger of his left hand. Harry would occasionally pause, lift his chin and with a scrunched brow, eye Timmy from head to toe. There would follow either a hum of approval or a tsk of disappointment, before moving onto the next piece of clothing.

Just as in the way he spoke, Harry seemed in no hurry. Tim felt as if he were going to vibrate out of his skin. Once finished, Harry crossed his arms,  propped them across the top of the rack as he looked at Tim, finally answering his question.

“Not that the chance of  _ meeting you _ wasn’t enough of an enticement,” Harry winked. “You asked for me.”

Tim rubbed his chin against his shoulder. That was true. He did. He  _ had _ . Brian told him the magazine was interested in an interview and was looking for a  _ hook, _ something to really grab attention from readers. Tim was a current hot commodity. It wasn’t something he was necessarily purposefully angling for, but Tim and his team were savvy enough to know to strike while the iron was white-hot.

So, the mag had asked him who he thought he could play off of well. Someone he admired and that would make for a lively discussion.

Timothée knew most of his fans would have expected a certain  _ someone _ else. He  _ had  _ entertained the thought for half a second. It wasn’t that he didn’t _ want _ Armie to do it. He  would have been happy if that’s who the magazine had chosen, but leaving the decision to Timothée made him want to reach outside the box. Timmy wanted to stretch his wings. Armie would always be his nearest and dearest. They were family, their bond forged in the fire of a southern Italian summer, forever linked but they were on separate paths now. Hopefully, in the not-too-distant future the sequel would come to fruition and they would find their lives once more entangled, but for now… it was easier (better) for Timmy to keep some distance for a whole host of reasons he didn’t want to unpack right now. If ever.

Harry had been at the top of a very short list.

It’s true that Timothée had never been a fan of One Direction. It simply wasn’t his type of music, but he had nothing against it. But with the release of Harry’s solo album, he’d been intrigued by how well he was received and understood on a very much smaller scale now, how difficult it must have been for Harry to step out into the spotlight on his own, to hope to be accepted as an artist in his own right.

Tim felt their careers were running on parallel trajectories. Harry’s was certainly on a scale Timothée could barely comprehend. His own spotlight was now bright enough to burn, he couldn’t imagine the intensity Harry faced.

“Well, I mean,  _ technically _ , I guess you could say that. The interview was the magazine’s idea, they just asked me who I thought might be an interesting counterpart -”

“And,  _ voila, _ ” Harry smirked, arms stretched wide before smacking his hands over the bar of the clothes rack, his rings pinging against the metal.

“They didn’t say anything to me about the shoot being-”

“Was my idea,” Harry lifted his chin, his nose in the air. Smug. “I did run it by Brian first. Well, my  _ people _ let him know.”

_ Ah. _ Now it made sense why Brian was so easily convinced to stay behind. This whole set-up had a distinctly Machiavellian vibe.

“Okay. Alright,” Timmy swallowed. The idea of playing dress-up with Harry Styles suddenly  _ very  _ appealing. “So we’re doing this together. Cool.”

“Nope,” his lips pursed, popping with the plosive. “Not  _ together _ in the way you think.”

Harry sauntered away from the rack of priceless designer frocks, stopping in front of the mirror. He fingered items on the table. Timmy, eyes wide, couldn’t look away.

“No?”

Harry shook his head, his eyes meeting Timmy’s over his shoulder in the mirror. The dimple was back. He turned to face Tim, one hip propped against the counter as he motioned Timmy over with a lazy wave of his fingers.

_ Did his fingers move so slowly because his rings made them heavy? _

Harry was reaching for him before Tim’s sock-clad feet decided to silently propel him closer. As if it were a foregone conclusion.

Tim wasn’t certain that it wasn’t at this point. Harry had this aura of  _ power _ that overrode the still-water vibe he normally exuded. He had a way of making certain he got his way before Tim knew what to think. Harry was slow to reveal it, but overtime and the handful of conversations they’d had over the phone, Tim had come to know it pretty well.

Their ‘interview’ had shown Tim what Harry was working with, had made Tim sit just a little straighter on the upholstered chair in his hotel suite in San Sebastien, rapt, hanging on every word, relishing the volley of answers and questions as Harry had conducted the ‘interview’.

_ I’m asking the questions. _

The thought sent a flush of heat blooming from his chest, up and out of the open lapel of his bathrobe.

When Tim was close enough, Harry wasted no time reaching around, behind Timmy’s neck, unfastening the necklace he was wearing, talking as he worked. Tim was putty in his hands.

“Thing is, and you’re gonna find this out very soon, there’s perks to this gig.”

Tim swallowed, watching Harry’s lips as he spoke, trying not to think about his hands as they grazed the skin at the back of his neck, ruffled the short hair there.

“To all this fame. People are willing to give you all sorts of keys to cities you didn’t know you had any interest in visiting.”

The struggle was real, to resist the urge to press his index finger into the divot that appeared in Harry’s left cheek when he smiled. Timothée cleared his throat as Harry turned away, hanging his necklace off the edge of the mirror.

“I see it in you, though. You’re keen,” there was a smirk but it wasn’t knowing, more conspiratorial.

Harry knew because Harry was the same. A singer turned actor with an eye for fashion, multi-faceted. They really were so very much the same.

“You don’t even have a stylist for fuck’s sake, so I  _ know _ you get it. You’ll learn people are willing to allow you chances to do things you never knew to want.”

“That’s what you’re doing here?” Tim’s voice sounded strained to his own ears. He blinked, swallowed, mentally shook his head to clear it, waiting for what Harry would say or do next.

Harry shrugged a shoulder, picked up another necklace before putting it down, his fingers dancing over all the baubles on display.

“Found out Mario was photographer and knew I had to be involved in a more  _ hands on _ aspect.”

The subtext of that statement was not lost on Tim. Harry reached for him again, fastening a different necklace around his neck. Instead of a flush rising up to color his neck and cheeks, this time there was a more southerly flow. Warmth pooling somewhere behind Timmy’s navel.

Timmy fingered the silver box-link chain, the metal cool against his fingertips.

“So finding out Mario was the photographer made you want to what? Be my stylist?” Timmy scoffed.

Harry’s attention turned back to the items on the table so Timmy sat back down, patient. His question was only partially in jest. He couldn’t imagine  _ why  _ Harry Styles would be so eager to be the one to doll Timmy up.

Well, Timmy knew what reason  _ he  _ wanted it to be, had thought about it a lot over the weeks since they’d starting talking. They’d been in contact since the last few weeks of filming  _ The King _ . Harry’s tour had been in full-swing, Tim’s social media feeds filled with images of his shows, comments on his styling. Of course, Timothée had been drawn to the choice of fashion he wore nightly, amazed by his showmanship. He wasn’t afraid to admit he was envious of Harry’s effortless style. He found himself during down times and lulls in shooting, messaging Brian, subtly asking if there was a way he could get in touch with Harry until one day, he had a message from an unknown number.

They’d been consistently in contact ever since.

But, Tim knew wishful thinking could turn to deep and bitter disappointment at any time, so he remained unwilling to entertain the thought  that Harry was anything other than a natural flirt. Tim was wary, especially when he didn’t know where the boundaries were. He’d been burned by blurred lines before.

“You’ve worked with Mario before.”

Tim nodded. He had. The pics had sort of become iconic to the  _ Call Me By Your Name _ era. He was still teased about the pink ruffles by buddies back home.

Tim loved that shirt and that photo shoot.

“Yeah, he’s great.”

Harry hummed before turning around. He perched on the counter, feet spread wide on either side of Timmy’s seat. His body now the cage holding Timmy captive.

“He is. And those pics were super-”

“Why do I sense a _ ‘but’  _ there?”  

This time Harry leaned forward, his hands extending to reach up for Timmy’s left ear and Timmy froze.  He shivered, the fantasy Harry might run his fingers through his hair quashed when there was a slight catch, not pain, but a pinch, to the lobe of his ear. Tim’s brow furrowed.

Finished, Harry planted his hands on the armrests of Timmy’s seat, leaning to the side far enough for Timmy to see himself in the mirror. A silver earring now dangled there, it caught the light, flashing bright against his dark hair.

It was an odd look for Tim. He was a fan of jewelry, had always worn necklaces (thank you, Yu-Gi-Oh) and more recently a number of bracelets, but he’d never thought of earrings.

Timmy tilted, his head, the silver blinking in the light, as his eyes met Harry’s, the question unasked but clear between them.

“You’re so fucking  _ pretty _ .”

It was stated as such a matter of fact it startled a bark of laughter from the back of Timmy’s throat.

Harry smiled, mesmerising Timmy with a Cheshire grin that revealed straight white teeth. Timmy startled with a flinch as Harry slapped the palms of his hands against the armrest, pushing himself upright. He walked around, standing behind Timothée’s chair. Their eyes met in the mirror.

“There’s nothin’ wrong with pretty, mind,” Harry drawled, leaning forward.

Timmy lifted his head a fraction to the side, his chin tilted, leaning into Harry’s voice, their eyes still locked in the glass.

“There isn’t? Doesn’t sound like it.” Timothée rolled his eyes, one corner of his mouth lifted, caught between a smirk and disdain.

There was no heat in Harry’s words, Timmy knew he didn’t mean it as some sort of backhanded insult.

“May I?” Harry’s hands were poised above Timmy’s head.

Tim shrugged, nodded, unsure what exactly Harry was asking until he was suddenly raking his fingers back through Timmy’s hair. Timmy blinked in quick succession, fighting the urge to close his eyes and melt into the vinyl chair beneath him.

The rings on Harry’s fingers snagged as he tousled Timmy’s hair, pushing back the sides, pulling a lock of fringe forward in the front.

“Pretty suits you. It’s what everyone’s come to expect from you, but-” Harry paused, the fingers of his left hand trailing down Timmy’s neck. His index finger hooked onto the necklace he had put on Tim, rolling the chain back and forth against his skin.

Gooseflesh traveled down his arm as he caught Harry’s blue eyes in the mirror, dark, hidden in the shadow of his hair where it fell forward against his own brow.

Timmy felt a rush of deja vu. Meeting a pair of blue eyes was something Tim was used to. Though the blue he normally found staring back at him was the blue of the Caribbean, beautiful but always with the threat of a storm on the horizon. Harry’s were the blue of a mountain lake, placid and calm.

“But?” Tim’s voice is low, his tongue thick in his too-dry mouth.

He doesn’t pay too much attention to his own reflection, knowing he looks entirely too hungry for what the moment suggests. His mouth is open to breaths that come a little shallow and quick. The heat of Harry’s body behind him made him wish he weren’t sitting, that maybe if he were standing, Harry would be pressed flush against his body.

It’s thrilling, this feeling, this flush of new desire. Tim’s felt like this part of his life has been on hold for the past two years. Well, that’s not true. It’s been a constant war within himself. A battle he couldn’t win and so did his best to ignore it, almost convincing himself he was too busy, too singularly focussed on his career so there was no room for that in his life.

Acknowledging this now, whatever it is between he and Harry— innocent flirtation, mutual desire— is a welcome distraction. He’s missed it and  _ fuck,  _ he just wanted some uncomplicated attention.

Harry loomed over the back of the chair, leaning in. Timmy could feel his breath, his mouth close to his ear, his voice pitched low.

“I wanna see you  _ sullied _ .”

 


End file.
